"Go ahead, Senator Martin," Krendlei said. "I'll be out in a second."

Ruth Martin left the room without answering Starling's question.

Starling had a chance to look Krendler over as he was closing the bedroom door. His suit was a triumph of single-needle tailoring and he was not armed. The shine was buffed off the bottom half-inch of his heels from walking on much deep carpet, and the edges of the heels were sharp.

He stood for a moment with his hand on the doorknob, his head down.

"That was a good search," he said when he turned around.

Starling couldn't be had that cheap. She looked back at him.

"They turn out good rummagers at Quantico," Krendler said.

"They don't turn out thieves."

"I know that," he said.

"Hard to tell."

"Drop it."

"We'll follow up on the pictures and the rubber cabbage, right?" she said.

"Yes."

"What's the 'William Rubin' name, Mr. Krendler?"

"Lecter says that's Buffalo Bill's name. Here's our transmission to ID section and NCIC. Look at this." He gave her a transcript of the Lecter interview with Senator Martin, blurry copy from a dot-matrix printer.

"Any thoughts?" he said when she finished reading.

"There's nothing here he'll ever have to eat," Starling said. "He says it's a white male named Billy Rubin who had elephant ivory anthrax. You couldn't catch him in a lie here, no matter what happens.' At the worst he'd just be mistaken. I hope this is true. But he could be having fun with her. Mr. Krendler, he's perfectly capable of that. Have you ever… met him?"

Krendler shook his head and snorted air from his nose.

"Dr. Lecter killed nine people we know of. He's not walking, no matter-- he could raise the dead and they wouldn't let him out. So all that's left for him is fun. That's why we were playing him--"

"I know how you were playing him. I heard Chilton's tape. I'm not saying it was wrong-- I'm saying it's over. Behavioral Science can follow up what you got-- the transsexual angle-- for what it's worth. And you'll be back in school at Quantico tomorrow."

Oh boy. "I found something else."

The sheet of colored paper had lain on the bed unnoticed. She gave it to him.

"What is it?"

"Looks like a sheet of Plutos." She made him ask the rest.

He beckoned for the information with his hand.

"I'm pretty sure it's blotter acid. LSD. From maybe the middle seventies or, before. It's a curiosity now. It's worth finding out where she got it. We should test it to be sure."

"You can take it back to Washington and give it to the lab. You'll be going in a few minutes."

"If you don't want to wait, we can do it now with a field kit. If the police've got a standard Narcotics Identification Kit, it's test J, take two seconds, we can--"

"Back to Washington, back to school," he said, opening the door.

"Mr. Crawford instructed me--"

"Your instructions are what I'm telling you. You're not under Jack Crawford's direction now. You're back under the same supervision as any other trainee forthwith, and your business is at Quantico, do you understand me? There's a plane at two-ten. Be on it."

"Mr. Krendler, Dr. Letter talked to me after he refused to talk to the Baltimore police. He might do that again. Mr. Crawford thought--"

Krendler closed the door again, harder than he had to. "Officer Starling, I don't have to explain myself to you, but listen to me. Behavioral Science's brief is advisory, always has been. It's going back to that. Jack Crawford should be on compassionate leave anyway. I'm surprised he's been able to perform as well as he has. He took a foolish chance with this, keeping it from Senator Martin, and he got his butt sawed off. With his record, this close to retirement, even she can't hurt him that much. So I wouldn't worry about his pension, if I were you."

Starling lost it a little. "You've got somebody else who's caught three serial murderers? You know anybody else who's caught one? You shouldn't let her run this, Mr. Krendler."

"You must be a bright kid, or Crawford wouldn't bother with you, so I'll tell you one time: do something about that mouth or it'll put you in the typing pool. Don't you understand-- the only reason you were ever sent to Lecter in the first place was to get some news for your Director to use on Capitol Hill. Harmless stuff on major crimes, the 'inside scoop' on Dr. Lecter, he hands that stuff out like pocket candy while he's trying to get the budget through. Congressmen eat it up, they dine out on it. You're out of line, Officer Starling, and you're out of this case. I know you got supplementary ID. Let's have it."

"I need the ID to fly with the gun. The gun belongs at Quantico."

"Gun. Jesus. Turn in the ID as soon as you get back."

Senator Martin, Gossage, a technician, and several policemen were gathered around a video display terminal with a modem connected to the telephone. The National Crime Information Center 's hotline kept a running account of progress as Dr. Lecter's information was processed in Washington. Here was news from the National Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta: Elephant ivory anthrax is contracted by breathing dust from grinding African ivory, usually for decorative handles. In the United States it is a disease of knifemakers.

At the word "knifemakers," Senator Martin closed her eyes. They were hot and dry. She squeezed the Kleenex in her hand.

The young trooper who had let Starling into the apartment was bringing the Senator a cup of coffee. He still had on his hat.

Starling was damned if she'd slink out. She stopped before the woman and said, "Good luck, Senator. I hope Catherine's all right."

Senator Martin nodded without looking at her. Krendler urged Starling out.

"I didn't know she wasn't s'posed to be in here," the young trooper said as she left the room.

Krendler stepped outside with her. "I have nothing but respect for Jack Crawford," he said. "Please tell him how sorry we all are about… Bella's problem, all that. Now let's get back to school and get busy, all right?"

"Good-bye, Mr. Krendler."

Then she was alone on the parking lot, with the unsteady feeling that she understood nothing at all in this world.

She watched a pigeon walk around beneath the motor homes and boats. It picked up a peanut hull and put it back down. The damp wind rued its feathers.

Starling wished she could talk to Crawford. Waste and stupidity get you the worst, that's what he said. Use this time and it'll temper you. Now's the hardest test-- not letting rage and frustration keep you from thinking. It's the core of whether you can command or not.

She didn't give a damn about commanding. She found she didn't give a damn, or a shit for that matter, about being Special Agent Starling. Not if you play this way.

She thought about the poor, fat, sad, dead girl she saw on the table in the funeral home at Potter, West Virginia. Painted her nails with glitter just like these God damned redneck ski boats.

What was her name? Kimberly.

Damn if these assholes are gonna see me cry.

Jesus, everybody was. named Kimberly, four in her class. Three guys named Sean. Kimberly with her soap opera name tried to fix herself, punched all those holes in her ears trying to look pretty, trying to decorate herself. And Buffalo Bill looked at her sad flat tits and stuck the muzzle of a gun between them and blew a starfish in her chest.

Kimberly, her sad, fat sister who waxed her legs. No wonder-- judging from her face and her arms and legs, her skin was her best feature. Kimberly, are you angry somewhere? No senators looking out for her. No jets to carry crazy men around. Crazy was a word she wasn't supposed to use. Lot of stuff she wasn't supposed to do. Crazy men.